


Until Tomorrow

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Hero Worship, Past Relationship(s), Slow Burn, Warden in Dragon Age: Inquisition
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-24
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:49:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29668926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Hawke, to the Inquisitor, is far more than just the Champion of Kirkwall.The Inquisitor is the most beautiful woman Hawke's seen for a good long while.Will they act on their mutual feelings?
Relationships: Hawke/Lavellan (Dragon Age), Male Hawke/Female Lavellan (Dragon Age)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2
Collections: Nobody Expects the Dragon Age Smutquisition





	Until Tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Padme4000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Padme4000/gifts).



“I’ve read your _Tale of the Champion_ , and I have questions,” she says, innocently.

In truth, her heart is pounding in her chest harder than the rocking of an aravel’s wheels on a stony path, knowing that she’s just one step removed from Hawke.

 _The_ Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall, preserver of Clan Sabrae from the abomination their Keeper became, and steadfast friend of elves regardless of where they’re from, with him and that clan’s outcast shepherding refugees from the last war breaking out in the city.

Varric describes his exploits and his character, and she and tries to get more of a measure of the man than can be found in the simplistic illustrations in his book. He’s depicted as having shorn hair and a beard, but that’s it. Varric gives her a bit more detail, but she ultimately departs, chilled by more than the weather when he asserts that he can’t find Hawke.

-

She doesn’t think much about Hawke after that, given everything she’s had to do after her first attempt to seal the Breach, until she’s stood in the ruins of Skyhold’s main hall, hearing Leliana despair over knowing so little about their true enemy and his intentions. Just then, Varric’s voice rings out in the hall.

“I know someone who can help with that.”

Varric doesn’t say his ‘someone’s’ name, but who else could he have been talking about? The realisation that he’d lied about losing the Champion’s trail is a distant, quiet voice in the back of her head, drowned out by the rising anticipation in her heart—the knowledge that she, indeed, would get to meet this hero of hers.

-

“Inquisitor, meet Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall.”

She is the Inquisitor, and must present an air of authority. She can’t afford to be seen being partial to any of her associates, even important ones like Varric’s. Most of all, she knows she shouldn’t melt right before him—after all, who’s to say he’s truly the man of Varric’s stories, anyway?—despite all she wants to say to him and what she wants to know from him.

But as she sees the Champion descend the stairs, the same shorn hair and rough beard coming into view, the man seemingly only having aged the slightest since the end of his depiction in Varric’s tales whilst losing none of his rugged charm, she feels her heart skip a beat.

* * *

Hawke’s luck in life is pretty much that, his own life, nothing more or less. It sure doesn’t seem to entail his fortunes, or love life, for that matter. Camped out in Crestwood whilst waiting for the Inquisition as he is, he’s had some time to himself to remember people in general, and women in specific, who’ve had the fortune or misfortune of passing through his own life.

First off, so many years ago, there was his colleague in crime as he scrounged the depts of Kirkwall to pay off his and his uncle’s obligations. She’d married into high society before he could get there, and that was the end of that.

Then, there’d been the Templar who’d helped him investigate the matter of the illicit necromancer stalking Kirkwall’s women, including his own mother. After the outcome of that disaster, he’d found solace with her, up till her giving her life for the city against the qunari.

Lastly, there was a wayward Templar’s sister, who’d never forgotten what he’d done for her in his early days in the city. But then the Knight-Commander’s subordinates, her brother included, decided to act against their boss, and she fled with him in their failure. He’d never seen her again.

And then…there was the Inquisitor.

Varric’s description of her in his letter had been enough to pick her out of a crowd—blonde, green-eyed, vallaslin like a tree—but uncharacteristically for the storyteller he doesn’t exposit much further on her appearance, leaving him to make his own conclusions.

Or maybe the dwarf wanted him to be totally bowled over by her on first look.

Her beauty aside, she’s smart, very much so, cutting through the half-answers he gives when telling uncomfortable truths, and gets right to the point with regards to his failure to destroy Corypheus, as well as his mission pursuing the Wardens. Still, he senses her hiding something, some sentiment that’s straining at the edges of every question she asks, which she's holding back.

Maker knows what that is. Maybe she didn’t get enough answers out of Varric the whole time he was stuck with the Inquisition. Maybe she wants _his_ opinion of Varric, since the man’s prone to extravagant exaggerations about everything, most of all himself, and the only other source she’d have was Seeker Pentaghast, who…has her own biases.

Turning the spit over to roast the other side of a hare, Hawke thinks to himself about something Varric had told him right before he’d met the Inquisitor on the battlements.

_“Doesn’t much care for the menfolk of the Inquisition, but she seems to be quite enamoured with your exploits.”_

He can’t for the life of him decipher what it means. Sure, he knows what it’d _like_ to be, but there’s no way…the Inquisitor’s a busy woman and she surely wouldn’t…

The hare is starting to burn. Focus, Hawke.

* * *

“Watch out, Inquisitor!”

As though out from nowhere, Hawke springs into action, cutting down a shade that would’ve surely carved the Herald of Andraste in two had he arrived a moment too late, and in return, the Inquisitor opens her palm, and bowls over the last of the possessed Warden mages over Hawke’s shoulder, the rest of her crew making short work of their foes.

Just as everything ends, Hawke finds himself before the Inquisitor, not really knowing or caring how her wrist found its way into his gentle grasp.

“Are you all right?”, he asks.

She glances from her hand into his eyes, that same look in her gaze as when she pressed him on his history in Kirkwall, speaking sentiments she dares not put into words, her answer to his question being that yes, she indeed is. The moment hangs in time until their Warden friend informs them that Hawke’s suspicions were right.

Their eyes share a secret, wordless, conversation even as Hawke argues with his contact about what to do with their ancient order. Even as he leaves the ruined tower to seek out Adamant Fortress, he looks back at the Inquisitor’s party, unwilling to lose sight of her until it becomes inevitable.

* * *

The last of her advisors have left her tent overlooking the plain which Adamant sticks out of like a rotted sore, and the candles are going out throughout the camp. The Inquisition’s move will be soon, and so too will their time together.

Hawke draws up his resolve, and heads towards her quarters. She glances up from the map of Adamant unrolled before her to consider her new guest, and the two stand with the map, the table, and seemingly the entire world, between them for long moments, as the breath catches in his throat, all the sentiments building up in his breast stopped there.

Finally, he gives a bland statement of them parting ways during the siege itself and says some platitudes about hoping to see her make it through to the other side.

She nods as she hears his empty words, her chest thundering with much the same feelings but knowing that she can’t let herself be partial if some cruel decision emerges during the siege, instead returning Hawke’s concern and adding an offhanded joke to defuse the situation, only to hear a laugh as hollow as his words.

He leaves her tent, having said none of what he wished to convey, kicking a defenceless tent-peg as he heads to his own bedroll, and she drains the last of her wine, trying to wash away her impression of the torment in his eyes even as he’d said all he’d said, and the knowledge that she surely had looked much the same, her struggle written all over her own face.

Until tomorrow. Once everything was over tomorrow, they’d be free of the shackles of mutual obligation. So long as there _was_ a tomorrow after all this.

* * *

Tomorrow came.

They dove, together with their comrades, into the Fade.

There, a Warden fell, giving his life for tomorrow, and all their days after, but not for himself.

* * *

The Inquisitor, triumphant as she emerges from the Fade, trembles with a fearsome rage unseen before as she berates the Wardens for the foolishness which had led them to this point as well as the sacrifice of their prodigal comrade, and demands they depart from the region post-haste.

Hawke volunteers to make sure they follow through with her command when she stops him and tells him there’s no need to rush.

“But my work here is done–”, he insists, before she cuts him off.

“We’ve just both been through the Fade and back. The Wardens won’t leaving so soon anyway seeing as they need to be accounted for, and we need to take stock of what we’ve lost as well,” she says. “Please, let us…let _me_ …have the privilege of housing and feeding you one day more. Please.”

Her words make an offer as an ally, but her expression tells a wholly different tale as a lover. And for the first time since they’ve met, he can offer to answer her with his heart.

“I’d love that,” he says.

* * *

Once they’re in her tent, their lips crash together, their passions flowing into each other as their hands peel off the restrictive, bloody, armour adorning them both, plates of metal and strips of leather falling to the ground as she guides him to her bedroll.

The regret that they’ll never be able to do this in her lush four-poster bed briefly flashes through her mind before being totally forgotten as his rough hands gently snake under her shirt, squirming under him as he caresses her.

She lifts her arms to take her shirt off and he follows suit, glancing down to see her working her smallclothes off. The sight will keep him warm for many nights to come on the trail north to Weisshaupt, he’s sure of it. She looks deep into his eyes, their emotions finally matching the moment, and rises to kiss him again and again until his lips come down to rest upon her.

From there, they let their desires of the weeks and months past take them through their motions, their two bodies becoming one as the Inquisitor makes love to her hero, and Hawke repays his kindness to the woman who’s saved his life now more times he can count.

Nothing else matters this night. Adamant, The Wardens, and Corypheus are all simply words. Only they exist now, for each other.

Their passions reach their climax at long last, the Inquisitor giving a cry to the heavens as she senses herself reach culmination, her thighs gripping him ever tighter, never wishing to let him go, and Hawke knows that he can’t hold out much longer, finally releasing himself within her even as he feels her hot, wet, tears gently fall upon his face, knowing that all things, even tonight, must reach their end.

She rolls over to his side, Hawke slipping out of her, and their limbs entangle as he reaches for her sheets to cover them for the night, holding her close now and forevermore.

Forevermore? Well, until tomorrow.


End file.
